She Won’t Let the Sea Swallow More Lives

I am standing on the beach in Thiaroye-sur-mer, a destitute fishing town near the Senegalese capital, Dakar. Littered with fish heads, broken shoes, plastic buckets and filthy rags, the beach looks like a dump. At the ocean’s edge, colorful canoes sit in a neat line on the sand. In years past local fishermen brought home their bounty in these boats. Now desperate Senegalese take them on harrowing, often deadly voyages on the open Atlantic Ocean in search of jobs. For countless young men, these fragile vessels have become floating coffins. I stare at the tiny boats they call pirogues in disbelief; I just can’t imagine sailing an angry ocean on what looks like a bath toy.

Yayi Bayam Diouf, 49, looks out at the horizon. In February 2006 her 27-year-old son, Alioune Mar, set off, hoping to reach the Spanish Canary Islands hundreds of miles away and from there, make it to mainland Europe. Yayi had mixed feelings about her son’s choice. She knew his trip would be treacherous, but “we didn’t have any jobs here,” she explains in French. Hours before Alioune Mar’s journey, Yayi spoke to him by cell phone. “He asked me to pray for his safe passage,” she says.

Yayi learned of her son’s death days later, when a cousin in the Canary Islands called her with the news. Spanish patrols had found her son’s wrecked boat split in two. “Shoes and cooking gear were floating in the water,” Yayi says. “But everyone in the boat had been swallowed by the ocean.” By everyone she means 81 young men from Thiaroye. The oldest was 30 years old.

Yayi’s cousin had asked her to inform the other families. First she told town officials, who made an announcement at the local mosque. Then she went door-to-door, grieving with neighbors for children she had helped raise. That nightmare experience galvanized Yayi, who is now fighting to keep the next generation of Senegalese home, safe and hopeful for the future.

According to the International Organization for Migration, nearly 32,000 illegal immigrants (mostly young men from West Africa) arrived on the Canary Islands in 2006, with many others dying at sea. From Thiaroye alone, says Yayi, almost 400 men died or disappeared during doomed sea voyages in the past year; another 200 were caught by Spanish authorities and returned home, alive but destitute. Smugglers who organize the illicit boat trips might charge the equivalent of $1,300, or about six months of wages. The job seekers and their families often spend all of their savings to pay for the trip.

Only deep misery could provoke such an exodus. Unemployment in Thiaroye, a town of about 45,000, is estimated at 80 percent, about double the national average. Fishing was once the backbone of the country’s coastal economy. Then, in the early 1980s, Senegal reached a fishing agreement with the European Union, which brought massive foreign trawlers to the waters off West Africa. “Everything changed,” Yayi says. “Some people keep fishing, but our equipment can’t compete.” Families just can’t survive.

In this Muslim community, 95 percent of men are polygamous. Yayi’s own father had four wives, and she grew up in a house with more than 20 brothers and sisters. “Many families have more than 60 members,” she says. When fathers retire, emigrate, get sick or die, the eldest son is often responsible for supporting his entire family—these young men make up most of the passengers in the smugglers’ boats. As one young man who tried to leave last year said, “I have four sisters and a little brother, and I am the breadwinner. I didn’t want to stay here to do nothing.”

Among the few women who have attempted the dangerous voyage is Awa, a 24-year-old hairdresser. “I was more afraid to stay than to leave, even in that fashion,” she says. Many of her fellow passengers died during the 10-day journey. Awa was plucked from the water by authorities and sent home. She shrugs as if shaking off the hopelessness that characterizes the youth in the village, but comes to life again when we talk hair—she hates mine. “How can you live with so many curls, is what I wonder,” she says. When I leave, my heart breaks as I see in Awa’s stare a longing for the freedom I enjoy. In two days, she seems to be thinking, you will be in the West and don’t even know your luck.

Yayi mourned her son’s death for 40 days, feeling a whirlwind of pain and anger. “All through that process I saw that boys kept leaving,” she says. Fed up, Yayi spoke out. First she met with the all-male town council, something no woman had done before. After losing her only son, Yayi had no fear left. “I told the council what they didn’t want to hear,” she says. “Emigration is killing us.”

Since the male town leaders were doing nothing, Yayi decided that it was up to women to solve the problem. So she created the Women’s Association Against Clandestine Emigration. Two years later her group has 357 members, mostly mothers from Thiaroye who have lost sons at sea. Many women say they feel guilty for having helped fund the trips that killed their children, and with Yayi, they are determined to prevent more dying.

Yayi’s association began to patrol the beach and report smugglers to police. “Because of our work, five men are in prison,” Yayi says. The women also meet weekly with young men to try to persuade them not to risk the perilous journey to Europe. So far, Yayi says, her group has convinced more than 300 youths to stay in Senegal. And her work is gaining notice; Yayi has spoken at conferences in Madrid, Dakar and the Canary Islands about the dangers of illegal migration, and is lobbying leaders in West Africa and Europe for small business loans that could give young people an incentive to stay home.

To help employ impoverished mothers and widows of men who died at sea, Yayi also started a small mussel-selling business. The women work as a team, gathering, cleaning and cooking mussels; then they sell them and share the meager profits. “There are things Africa can teach the world,” Yayi tells me with pride. “Togetherness is one.”

In Yayi’s office her son’s photo hangs above her tiny desk. Outside in the yard I can hear the rhythmic banging of the women’s small machetes as they clean mussels. At lunchtime everyone sits on the floor and eats handfuls of a spicy rice and fish dish. As we eat, a woman starts dancing with no music. And when her tears start, it feels like a hundred hands want to reach out and dry them.

When Cheikh, 21, was sent home by authorities in 2006 for the second time, he went straight to Yayi. For hours she consoled him by saying that he could be valuable to his country. Yayi is convinced that the solution to poverty in Senegal is for young people to stay and work. But jobs are scarce, and many who leave make a better living in Europe. On one dirt street I notice a two-story home with arcade windows under construction. “Some of us make it,” says Cheikh, explaining that the owner works in Italy. What Yayi is up against can be summarized in the motto of would-be immigrants: “Barcelone or Barxax,” or “Barcelona or Death.” Still, Yayi got through to Cheikh, who is now an ally in her efforts. “She is my lifeline,” Cheikh says.

In late afternoon the village is bathed in a golden light. With Cheikh, I meet Bara, a man in his thirties who is set to leave by boat the next day. Despite Cheikh’s protests, Bara says he must go to feed his family. “How do you feel?” I ask. “In charge,” he replies.

Back at Yayi’s home, which she shares with her two adult daughters, Yayi feeds goats that belonged to her son. I tell her that I once hosted a French radio show about immigration. I loved reporting on the irrepressible ebb and flow of humanity across the planet. I met immigrants who were dreamers and adventurers; others who were fleeing hunger, war or political repression in their native lands. All were resilient survivors.

I remember one guest on my show, a Senegalese immigrant who read aloud this story: “Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle; when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.” Yayi laughs, a generous but pained laugh. “The question is, what are we running after? What about we start running after our own assets?” she says, meaning the ones found at home, in Senegal. These were the words of a grieving mother, echoed by more grieving mothers who pray the continent will listen to the silent plea of those who died at sea. As Yayi told me: “In the end, they were looking for dignity.”

Mariane Pearl’s collection of her Global Diary columns, In Search of Hope, can be purchased on glamour.com/globaldiary. Glamour’s proceeds go to the charities of the women profiled.